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Scarce had one pale moon pass’d away,
And fill'd her silver urn again, When in the devious chase to stray,
Afar from all his woodland train,
And, all to shun the fervid hour,
Sweet Ellen took her wonted way, And in the deep defending grove
Sought refuge from the fervid dayOh !
-who is he, whose ringlets fair
Disorder'd o'er his green vest flow, Reclined in rest-whose
hair Half hides the fair cheek's ardent glow? 'Tis he, that sprite's illusive guest,
(Ah me! that sprites can fate control !) That lives still imaged on her breast,
That lives still pictured in her soul. Ag when some gentle spirit fled
From earth to breathe elysian air, And, in the train whom we call dead,
Perceives its long loved partner there Soft, sudden pleasure rushes o'er,
Resistless, o'er its airy frame, To find his future fate restore
The object of its former flame : So Ellen stood-less
to move Had he, who, bound in slumber's chaif,
Seem'd, haply, o'er his hills to rove,
And wind his woodland chase again. She stood, but trembled-uningled fear
And fond delight and melting love Seized all her soul, she came not near,
She came not near that fated grove. She strives to fly-from wizard's wand
As well might powerless captive flyThe new cropp'd flower falls from her hand
Ah! fall not with that flower to die.
Smile in the morning's orient eye,
What tiine the sun was hasting nigh?
Muse that meets thine ear,
When, waked, it fix'd on Ellen near. Silent they gazed-that silence broke,
“ Hail, Goddess of these groves,” he cried, ** O let me wear thy gentle yoke,
“ O let me in thy service bide. 6 For thee I'll climb the mountain steep,
66 Unwearied chase the destined prey, “ For thee I'll pierce the wild wood deep,
66 And part the sprays that vex thy way. * For thee”_“ O stranger, cease,” she said,
And swift away, like Daphne, flew; But Daphne's flight was not delay'd
By aught that to her bosom grew.
"Twas Atalanta's golden fruit,
The fond idea that confined
Those genial airs where thou wast born, Where Nature, listening thy soft tales, Leans on the
breast of mornWhere the sweet siniles, the Graces dwell,
And tender sighs the heart emove, In silent eloquence to tell
Thy tale, O soul-subduing Love ! Ah! wherefore should grim Rage be nigh,
And dark Distrust with changeful face,
And lord of many a Lowland hind,
Had love, but not of gentle kind. From Moray's halls her absent hour
He watch'd with all a miser's care : The wide domain, the princely dower,
Made Ellen more than Ellen fair. Ah wretch! to think the liberal soul
May thus with fair affection part! Though Lothian's vales thy sway control,
Know, Lothian is not worth one heart. Studious he marks her absent hour,
And winding far where Carron flows,
Sudden he sees the fated hower,
And red rage on his dark brow glows. For who is he ?'tis Nithisdale !
And that fair form with arm reclined On his ?-'tis Ellen of the vale,
”Tis she (0 powers of vengeance !) kind. Should he that vengeance swift pursue ?
No that would all his hopes destroy ! Moray would vanish from his view,
And rob him of a miser's joy. Unseen to Moray's halls he hies
He calls his slaves, his ruffian band, “ And haste to yonder groves,” he cries,
6 And ambush'd lie by Carron's strand. 36 What time ye mark, from bower or glen,
66 A gentle lady take her way, 66 To distance due, and far from ken,
66 Allow her length of time to stray. • Then ransack straight that range of groves;
6 With hunter's spear, and vest of green, 6 If chance a rosy stripling roves
66 Ye well can aim your arrows keen.” And now the ruffian slaves are nigh,
And Ellen takes her homeward way, Though stay'd by many a tender sigh,
She can no longer, longer stay. Pensive, against yon poplar pale,
The lover leans his gentle heart, Revolving many a tender tale,
And wondering still how they could part. Three arrows pierced the desert air,
Ere yet his tender dreams depart;
And one struck deep his forehead fair,
And one went through his gentle heart. Love's waking dream is lost in sleep
He lies beneath yon poplar pale :
When all the mountain gales were still,
And the wave slept against the shore, And the sun, sunk beneath the hill,
Left his last smile on Lemmermore;
Along the fairy-featured vale,
And soon she'll meet her Nithisdale.
She'll meet him soon-for at her sight
Swift as the mountain deer he sped : The evening shades will sink in night
Where art thou, loitering lover, fled ? Oh! she will chide thy trifling stay;
Ev'n now the soft reproach she frames : 66 Can lovers brook such long delay ?
66 Lovers that boast of ardent flames !"
He comes not-weary with the chase,
Soft slumber o'er his eyelids throws Her veil--we'll steal one dear embrace,
We'll gently steal on his repose.
He sleeps beneath yon poplar pale